


breaking a glass at the well

by sickgirl_mp3



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: College?, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 02:28:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12355596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sickgirl_mp3/pseuds/sickgirl_mp3
Summary: fucking alcoholics





	breaking a glass at the well

**** With her feet already hurting and her brow furrowed, Beyoncé tries to be as optimistic as possible; she figures that if she psychs herself up, maybe the night’ll go better than she expected. 

 

Key word: maybe.

 

Beyoncé’s worst nightmare had played out for her in real life the previous day; she’d been invited to a party by her best friend Kelly even though she’s positive that she knows how much Beyoncé hates parties. She said she didn’t spend enough time with other people, that she needed to ‘let loose’ and whatnot because she’s in college. According to her, that’s what college is for aside from going there to get a degree. She walks on a road illuminated solely by dim streetlights on a Friday night and considers turning around, walking back to her apartment, and studying.  She thinks she’d be better off boring herself to death instead of wasting time going to a party where she knows she probably won’t have a good time.

 

On top of the anxiety that the party induces, Beyoncé walks alone off campus at night, and she’s not deathly afraid of being alone in a location where she could get easily kidnapped, but it’s definitely not something she finds favorable. Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she jumps, sighing loudly as she fishes for it and reads the text she's received from Kelly.

 

**½ OF THE DREAM TEAM (Kelly :p) - TODAY, 9:36 PM** : Beyoncéééé where r u at??? You aren’t ditching me again are u?? cuz if so... 

 

Kelly sends Beyoncé about twelve middle finger emojis.

 

**½ OF THE DREAM TEAM (Kelly :p) - TODAY, 9:37 PM:** Still love u tho :) stay safe <3

 

Beyoncé chuckles at her excessive use of the middle finger emoji and texts back, telling her that she should see her in a few minutes. She loves Kelly; she’s the best friend Beyoncé could ever ask for, even if she did push her buttons on a regular basis and get her out of her comfort zone at times. Deep down, she’s glad that she encouraged her to go to the party. Without her, she probably wouldn’t be half the person she is currently.

 

She gets so lost in her thoughts that before she knows it, she's arrived at the fraternity house that the party is supposed to be hosted at. As Beyoncé approaches the door, a wave of uncertainty washes over her. What if nobody wants to be seen near her? Even worse, what if she ends up embarrassing herself? She messes with the zipper on her hoodie as she thinks of more worst-case scenarios. People push past her and enter the party. Beyoncé surprises herself. She sticks her foot in the steadily closing space between the door jamb and the door itself before it can close fully, opens the door, and takes a deep breath before making her way inside.

 

She texts Kelly and tells her she's arrived, and it seems like Kelly didn’t even have time to read the text, but Beyoncé looks up from her phone and sees a tipsy Kelly walking toward her. 

 

“Beyoncé! I thought you wouldn’t show up. Totally thought you were going to be Beyoncé the Cave Dweller and ditch me,” Kelly says loudly as she slings an arm around Beyoncé’s shoulders while she rolls her eyes.

 

She doesn’t consider herself to be a ‘cave dweller’ like Kelly does, but she will admit that she favors her own company (and Kelly’s around ninety percent of the time, they’re roommates) more than anyone else’s. To add to that fact, she's serious about school (as she should be), so she can be found holed up in their apartment studying at almost any given time. Beyoncé just tells herself that Kelly is probably right (like always). She needs to socialize more.

 

“Wow, Kelly. Thanks for the warm welcome,” Beyoncé replies with a laugh. “I appreciate it.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Kelly says with a smile. 

 

They walk around the house for a few minutes before Kelly strolls away from Beyoncé wordlessly.

 

“Kelly!” Beyoncé shouts over loud music that seems to make the floor shake. She feels the vibrations in her shoes; it’s unsettling.

 

Kelly walks back over to Beyoncé. “Look- I’m not your mom, man. I know you’re like, my best friend, but you can’t hold on to me and follow me around forever. Eventually, you’re gonna have to start making some kind of effort to socialize- why not start right now, at thisparty? Y’know, where you’re supposed to do that kind of stuff.”

 

“Kelly, c’mon! Just- just let me try that shit at the next party we go to-”

 

“Sorry, girl,” Kelly says as she pats Beyoncé’s back and proceeds to back away from her, “I like, totally can’t hear you over the music!”

 

With that, Beyoncé watches Kelly run off to go do whatever it is that people who are good at talking and making friends do. She's definitely on her own now. She sighs deeply as she pushes her way through small crowds of people- people she should be mingling and drinking with- as she tries to find a place where she could sit down. She’d sit on one of the couches in the living room, but couples are making out on it and she's not really into voyeurism like that. 

 

Her wandering eventually gets her to the back of the house. It’s quieter aside from the slightly muffled music coming from the living room and the occasional (and slightly- scratch that-  _ very _ disgusting) sounds of people doing god-knows-what in the other rooms and in the hallway. She walks to the end of the hallway after successfully avoiding three couples making out against the wall (one pair of girls had to put their face-eating session on hold so that one could hold the other’s hair while they threw up; they’re lucky that the floors are hardwood) and she's met with a door. 

 

She puts her ear to it and she doesn’t hear a thing, so she figures that there can’t be much harm done in seeing what’s behind it. she opens the door and the first thing she sees is a set of stairs; she's found the basement. She wants to jump for joy because she's most likely found a place where she can be alone with her thoughts and not see excessive examples of PDA.

 

Beyoncé makes her way down the stairs and sees a couch when she gets to the final steps. She looks around to see if anyone could possibly see her, confirms that the coast is, in fact, clear, and she gets a running start. She dives onto the couch with a smile on her face and gets into a more comfortable position, her feet barely hanging off of the arm of the sofa opposite the one her head’s resting on.

 

She lies on the couch and relaxes for what seems like an entire minute before two boys stumble into the basement, unable to keep their hands off of each other. Beyoncé watches in horror as they near the couch she's on, and she moves her legs right before they both fall on them and then proceed to make out.

 

Beyoncé sighs and sits up. She’s beginning to think all of this is some sign, something telling her to go out and live her life instead of forcing herself to be a fucking nobody.

 

The couple next to her stops what they’re doing and looks at her.

 

“What? Did I step on your moment or something?” Beyoncé asks, awkward as ever and slightly bitter.

 

“You know, you look really lonely? you should go upstairs and at least watch a fight or have some punch,” one boy says earnestly.

 

The boy that’s currently lying under the giver of unwarranted advice pipes up. “Yeah, I totally agree. You should open up more! I see you in my biochemistry class like, all the time, and you’re always so quiet. Well, like, except for when you’re talking to that one girl.”

 

“I’m-”

 

“By the way,” the first boy interrupts, “Are y’all like, together?”

 

“No,” Beyoncé answers. “And thanks for that advice, I guess? I hope I didn’t totally kill you guys’ mood. Have a good night, you guys.” 

 

She gets off of the couch and makes her way up the stairs.

 

“Have fun!”

 

“Yeah, don’t be afraid to let loose! See you in class on Monday!”

 

“Thanks,” Beyoncé calls back with a chuckle.

 

With that, she's making her way back to the living room, where she hears a bass-boosted Tyler, The Creator song playing. That alone makes her consider going back to the basement for a second, but she forces herself to get over her secondhand embarrassment and get something to drink. 

 

She walks to the kitchen, where she finds more people making out on counters and tables and getting each other into experimental drug use. 

 

“Excuse me,” Beyoncé says awkwardly to a couple that’s dry humping in front of the punch bowl on the kitchen counter.

 

“What did you say?”

 

“I’m just trying to get punch. You’re kind of... in the way. Sorry,” Beyoncé says loudly, trying to talk over the music. The couple she's talking to moves out of her way with hasty apologies.

 

Beyoncé’s torn between choosing what she assumes to be fruit punch and what she assumes to be some type of pink lemonade drink. She goes for the fruit punch because she is a simple woman who likes the simple things in life. Plus, she's really suspicious of whatever might be in that pink punch. Then again, she's pretty suspicious of almost every single alcoholic drink at this party.

 

After Beyoncé gets her drink, she decides to look around some more. Her favorite songs start to come on, and she nods along to the music. Her mood starts to lighten up and she says hello to a few people she knows from her classes. She thinks she finally might be enjoying herself; she watches people dance and starts to make conversation.

 

As that dies down, Beyoncé’s left to her own devices again, so she finds an empty spot on a wall, leans on it, and reflects on the night she's had so far. She bets Kelly is watching her from wherever she is and giving herself a pat on the back. She chuckles at the thought.

 

Beyoncé finishes her drink and heads back to the kitchen to get a refill, and while she's getting her drink, she can’t help but to feel like she's being watched. She surveys the living room as he walks through it, retracing her steps. She can’t really see anyone clearly; the room is pretty dark aside from the light from lamps that are on in some corners of the room. The lamps have colored bulbs in them, and if Beyoncé’s goal for the night hadn’t been to avoid negativity, she’d say that colored light bulbs are a pretty childish choice for a party thrown by college students and that they look tacky. 

 

Beyoncé’s back on the wall again. Her gaze is fixated on her shoes as she tries to ignore the feeling that someone’s eyes are glued to her. Ten minutes pass; in that time, she checks her watch every few seconds, considers texting Kelly, and finishes her drink. Most of all, she considers screaming out of frustration. She thinks that maybe, just maybe, she should just wait and see if anyone comes to her. 

 

She's too impatient for that, so she dismisses the thought.

 

For about the tenth time in the span of an hour and a half, Beyoncé sighs. She puts her cup on the floor next to her feet, shoves her hands in her pockets, and looks at the opposite wall. 

 

Her eyes are automatically drawn to a lamp sitting in the corner. It’s tall, there’s no lampshade on it, and Beyoncé stares at the bare lightbulb that’s emitting a soft blue glow. Next, her eyes go to the person standing next to it. 

 

Beyoncé’s never really been wrong many times in her life, so when she thinks she's just laid eyes on an angel, nobody can tell her otherwise. They can try, at least, but she won’t listen to them, so it doesn’t matter.

 

The things that stand out about this person to Beyoncé so far are that they’re way taller than she is, they look beautiful bathed in the blue light of the lamp next to them, and that they’re staring directly at her. And that they’re a little mixture of cute and ugly. 

 

At least she has a conversation partner now.  As soon as she finishes her thought, the stranger starts walking toward her. 

 

Beyoncé’s rooted to her spot as she looks around frantically, trying her best to avoid their eyes as they get closer. She gets the bright idea to come off as someone who is cool and totally unfazed by acting like she's texting someone. The problem is she's so frantic about doing so that she taps away at her phone while it’s not even on. 

 

Beyoncé doesn’t have to look up to know that the person is now standing right before her. Their height makes her feel as if they’re looming over her; it makes her feel small. She begins to somewhat forcefully jab at her phone like that’ll somehow get her out of the situation.

 

The stranger’s hand smacks against the wall next to Beyoncé’s head. 

 

“Who’re you textin’? You tryin’ to break your phone or something? Damn.” 

 

His voice is smooth, deep; it has a bit of an accent to it, like he’s from someplace further up North. Beyoncé forces herself to stop what she's doing.

 

“Oh, I was just texting my friend Kelly, and-”

 

The stranger extends his hand for Beyoncé to shake as he cuts her off. 

 

“I’m Jordan- my friends call me J- and I’ve had a few drinks,” he says, his words slurring together a decent amount, but less than Beyoncé would’ve expected, because he looks like wild, frat boy, “I’ll drink myself to death,” kind of guy.

 

“Okay. More than a few drinks, but that’s not the point.”

 

Beyoncé shakes Jordan’s hand. 

 

“I’m Beyoncé.”

 

“No,” Jordan shakes his head and burps. “Sorry about that. You’re- fuck. P? Peter Pan? No- you’re that puppet guy. Pinocchio. And your nose is growing.”

 

Beyoncé forces a chuckle. What's this guy’s issue? 

 

“And why is that?”

 

“Because…” he trails off, 

 

“Because why?” Beyoncé asks. She finds herself to be really close to breaking out into a fit of giggles.

 

“‘Cause, you’re a liar, man,” Jordan answers with a laugh. “Your phone is off. You aren’t textin’ anybody. Plus, I saw Kelly like, ten minutes ago, and one of her girlfriends took her phone ‘cause she was getting a little too wild.”

 

Beyoncé finds out that she is surprisingly stellar when it comes to self-restraint, seeing as she's currently fighting immensely hard to not to groan in frustration and promptly eject herself from the entire situation. She feels like she’s being tricked, embarrassed just for fun.

 

“You caught me, Jordan,” Beyoncé tells him. When she says his name, she sees him smile a bit wider. Beyoncé wonders if her eyes could be fooling her. “If it weren’t so dark, you’d be able to see my nose growing.”

 

Jordan grins widely before he laughs again, and Beyoncé’s stomach is full of butterflies. She wishes he could take a video of this moment so she can hear and see it anytime she wants, and she finds this fact to be pretty corny. 

 

“Walk with me, Beyoncé.”

 

Beyoncé’s heart practically jumps into her throat at the way her name sounds coming out of Jordan’s mouth. She's so dumbfounded by it that he can’t really think of anything important or witty to say. 

 

“Huh? Why?” she asks.

 

“ _ Huh? Why? _ ” Jordan parrots lightheartedly. “You zoning out on me, girl? Someone’s had a little too much to drink-”

 

Beyoncé scowls and tries her best to act as if she's not planning on making a Pinterest board for the wedding that she's totally going to have with Jordan despite having just met him.

 

“Hey, no- and I’ve only had like, one and a half drinks. Anyway, where are you trying to go?” Even though she’s honestly willing to go wherever he goes for some reason, she at least reminds herself to  _ act  _ like she has a guard up, which isn’t far from the truth.

 

“I was gonna go get something to drink.”

 

“You need my help to get another drink?”

 

“God,” Jordan answers overdramatically as he grabs Beyoncé’s shoulders and looks her in the eye. “Yes! I do! Help me get one drink closer to making myself look as foolish as possible, Beyoncé. Please, I’m begging you, help me get completely fucked up tonight.”

 

Beyoncé stares at Jordan in silence for a second or two before she breaks out into a fit of laughter. 

 

“You’re fucking weird, man,” Beyoncé says in between laughs. “I’ll go with you, though.”

 

Jordan wordlessly makes a beeline for the kitchen, where he gently pushes people aside in order to get to the fridge and open it. He grabs two bottles of beer with one hand.

 

“Get me some water,” Beyoncé says. She sees Jordan pause for a moment before he grabs a bottle of water. 

 

Jordan turns around and hands Beyoncé her water. 

 

“Here you go.”

 

“Thanks,” Beyoncé says as she attempts take the bottle from Jordan, who doesn’t let go of it and instead opts to stare Beyoncé down in an eerily expecting manner. 

 

“Get me some water…” Jordan trails off.

 

“What?” 

 

Jordan sighs and rolls his eyes. 

 

“Let me try again,” he says before he begins to impersonate Beyoncé. “Jordan, get me some water!” It’s an overly exaggerated imitation of her, and Beyoncé rolls her eyes.

 

“Jordan, what the fuck is that?” Beyoncé asks, more concerned than confused. She really wants to ask Jordan if he really thinks it’s a good choice to continue drinking if he’s already this incoherent.

 

“What sounds fucked up about what I just said to you?” Jordan answers with another question. 

 

“How the fuck should I know?”

 

“You didn’t say ‘please,’” Jordan says with an annoyed groan.

 

“Who are you, my mother?” Beyoncé tuts at Jordan disapprovingly.

 

“Say it.”

 

“No, I’m not saying that. I’m nineteen years old, not five, and you definitely don’t seem like you’re old enough to be my mother OR my father,” Beyoncé says as she tries to yank the water bottle toward herself. “I just want my water, man.”

  
  


“Hey, I’m nineteen and like, 10 months, I’m older than you, so respect your elders. You won’t get your water until you say it.” Jordan yanks the bottle away from Beyoncé and smirks. “Looks like someone’s got a little attitude, huh?”

 

“Yeah, I do-”

 

“How cute is that?” Jordan asks with a chuckle. Beyoncé scowls.

 

“Give me my water.”

 

“Please?” Jordan smiles.

 

“Fuck, please, like- God! There you go. Please give me my water, Jordan, and stop playing with me like this.” Beyoncé yanks the bottle toward herself once more and Jordan lets her have it.

 

“You’re welcome.”

 

Beyoncé stays silent.

 

“Lighten up, Beyoncé! I was just havin’ a laugh with you.” Jordan pats Beyoncé on the back and his expression softens when he sees Beyoncé continue to be cold. “Hey, I hope I didn’t make you upset- I made you upset, didn’t I?”

 

Beyoncé rushes to tell Jordan that no, she is not upset, she is just slightly annoyed at him, and that she will get over it. Jordan’s face lights up and Beyoncé’s never felt better.

 

“You wanna see something cool?” Jordan asks after a few minutes of silently listening to the energetic song being spun by the overenthusiastic DJ.

 

“I’m scared, but why not?” Beyoncé replies.

 

“Watch how fast I can drink these beers.”

 

“Jordan, why would you want to-”

 

“Fuck all of that shit.”

 

Jordan uses the counter next to him to open one of the bottles in his hands before he begins to drink its contents quickly, and Beyoncé finds herself to be both amazed and concerned when Jordan finishes that and starts on his second bottle much faster than she anticipates. People begin to surround them and egg Jordan on just as he finishes his second bottle of beer.

 

Someone from the small group of people around them shoves a plastic cup into Jordan’s hand and he drinks it. When he finishes, he starts to shout. 

 

“Jungle Juice? Fuck!”

 

“What the hell is Jungle Juice?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“Jungle Juice, my friend, is the stuff of legends,” someone next to her says.

 

“I’d know that voice anywhere. Max from music theory?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“Beyoncé! What’s up? Small world.”

 

“Well, I’m here- obviously- and I still don’t get it,” Beyoncé says. “What’s Jungle Juice?”

 

“Two handles of vodka- three-point-five liters if getting geeky about shit makes you feel some type of way, one liter of Everclear, two cans of limeade concentrate, a pair of two-liter bottles of sprite, two cans of Kool Aid- everyone was like, ‘Max, don’t pick something fruity!’ and I was like, ‘God, let yourselves be held back by close-mindedness even though it’s just a bunch of potential flavoring for alcohol, fine, whatever,’ so I picked lemon-lime,” Max explains. “Oh, and ice and water. Put it into one of those Gatorade buckets they toss on athletes at sporting events and you’ve got yourself some frat-worthy shit, man. You can also put some frozen fruit in it if you’re worried about presentation.”

 

“That sounds terrible, Max.” Beyoncé, a known lightweight, refrains from dry heaving. 

 

“It kinda is, but it’s fun to watch people get fucked up. Speaking of…” Max points toward Jordan. “Looks like your man is already there.”

 

“How many do you think he’s had?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“I’d say he’s had about three,” Max says as he observes Jordan, who starts on another cup as soon as he gets his sentence out. “Make that three and a half.”

 

“Fuck,” Beyoncé mutters as he watches the crowd disperse. She assumes they’ve found things more interesting and dangerous to partake in. She turns to Jordan and gently grabs the drink that he currently has up to his mouth. “I think we should ease up on the drinks, huh?”

 

Jordan frowns. “Man, I was on a-” Jordan burps.

 

“Roll?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“Yeah. A roll.”

 

“Ok, I understand that! Let’s just give it a rest for a little while. Do it for me, J?”

 

“Hey,” Jordan says with a small laugh. “You called me J.”

 

“I did. Why don’t we take a walk around? How’s that sound?” Beyoncé asks. She also wants to ask herself why she's taking it upon herself to babysit a drunk nineteen-year-old, but she can’t be bothered with logistics at the moment.

 

She leads Jordan around the dimly-lit house and attempts to find anyone that knows him or can at least drive him home. She's not successful, so she tells Jordan that they’re going to get fresh air and takes him outside, where he sees someone and shouts something incoherently before he promptly throws up on the lawn and narrowly misses Beyoncé’s shoes in the process.

 

After Jordan finishes throwing up, he speaks. “Hey. There’s your friend. What’s her name? Kellz or somethin’. Kelly. Kaylee. I ’on’t fuckin’ know, man.” Jordan gestures past Beyoncé. 

 

Sure enough, Beyoncé sees Kelly. “Let’s go have a chat with Kelly, Jordan,” Beyoncé says as he drags her new acquaintance along.

 

“Beyoncé!” Kelly shouts, drawing her name out. “How’s the party goin’?”

 

“Can’t say it’s not eventful, Kelly,” Beyoncé answers. “Anyway, more importantly, are you staying safe? Has anyone tried to mess with you? Do you have a ride home? You’re not planning on driving, are you?” 

 

“No,  _ mom _ , someone’s driving me home, I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m drinkin’ water, I’m fuckin’ drunk as hell, though. I feel great...” Kelly trails off and looks at something behind Beyoncé with a puzzled expression on her face.

 

“Kelly? What’s up?”

 

“Oh my god,” Kelly begins. ”Did you score? Are you taking that boy home? Who is that?”

 

“What are you talking about?” Beyoncé asks as he turns to see what Kelly is looking at. Beyoncé finds Jordan climbing a tree about five feet away. 

 

He hangs from a dangerously weak-looking branch and shouts, “Hey! I’m a monkey, y’all! Oh my god, this is the best thing I’ve ever done, look at this!” and laughs loudly, messing around for what seems like a full minute before he falls from the tree and groans in pain.

“That’s Jordan. For once, someone is more wasted than you are,” Beyoncé explains.

 

“Oh, Jordan from my economics class? Small world.” Kelly makes a noise of surprise.

 

“Yeah, small world. I have to get him home, though. He’s fucked up beyond belief. No one here can tell me if they know him and they’re definitely not sober enough to drive him home.”

 

“I get it,” Kelly says. “Do what you have to.”

 

“I’ll call you when I get home.”

 

“Have fun!” Kelly says enthusiastically before she turns away from Beyoncé and yells something at one of her friends.

 

Jordan makes the decision to stay on the ground until Beyoncé is finished talking to Kelly, and for that, Beyoncé is very grateful. 

 

“You ready to go home, J?”

 

“I think so. My ass hurts. I fell right on it.”

 

“Yeah, you did, I definitely saw it.” Beyoncé helps Jordan get back onto his feet. “Jordan, can I ask you a question?”

 

“Yes! Yeah, definitely, Beyoncé. Anything for a fine ass girl like you.”

 

Beyoncé forces herself to laugh so that she doesn’t get caught looking stupefied. “That’s very kind of you to say, J.”

 

Jordan chuckles. None of this should feel as romantic or as special as it does, because Jordan’s so drunk that he casually threw up mere minutes ago and he and Beyoncé are at a frat party amongst other people around their age doing the same. Beyoncé isn’t entirely turned off when it comes to whatever’s going on between her and Jordan, though, but she’ll save the guesswork for a time when she's not trying to take a drunk nineteen-year-old home safely.

 

“Where do you live?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“Oh, really? That’s what you’re tryin’ to do, then?” Jordan asks with a smirk as he looks down at Beyoncé. “You coulda just told me straight up that you was feelin’ me like that, baby, shit. I surely wouldn’t have minded.”

 

Beyoncé wants to scream; she's really trying her best to not lose her patience. She's also making a great effort on hanging on to the last shreds of self control she has, because she wants to drag Jordan home by his legs as he kicks and screams more than anything she's wanted ever in life, but she also wants to jump in Jordan’s arms and let the night take them wherever it decides to. She knows the latter would be wrong, though.

 

Beyoncé smiles at Jordan and grabs him by the arm. “You’re entirely too drunk for that, but I appreciate the offer, you’re too kind.”

 

“I live in the museum district. My mom jokes around and tells her friends that I live near Picasso and Van Gogh and all of those other dudes.”

 

“I see where you get your wit and charm from, J,” Beyoncé says as she begins the long walk to the museum district and drags Jordan along with her.

 

Jordan gives Beyoncé a crooked smile. “Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome,” Beyoncé says as she returns a kind smile. “So, what are you majoring in?”

 

“Business.”

 

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about that, Jordan. You thinkin’ of going for something different?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“Fuckin’- Gimme a minute,” Jordan slurs. He turns toward the grass that runs along the sidewalk and doubles over as if he’s about to throw up and stays in the same position for a minute before he spits and lets out a sigh. “I fuckin’ hate it. In high school, a bunch of people I knew told me that I’d do great pursuing a degree in business or whatever the fuck. I hate it.”

 

Beyoncé frowns. “What are you interested in?”

 

“Computer science.”

 

“So, like,” Beyoncé grins. “You’re into that hacker-type shit? That’s awesome.”

 

Jordan chuckles. “Yes! I’m so into technology, ’s’not even funny, man. I haven’t told anyone that I wanna go into it though, so don’t tell my mom. Promise?”

 

“Promise. We can even shake on it.” Beyoncé stops walking and extends her hand for Jordan to shake.

 

Jordan smiles widely, his cheeks flushed due to all the alcohol he’s consumed. “Good.” He stops and shakes Beyoncé’s hand. He’s so purely sincere that Beyoncé could cry a little. 

 

Beyoncé feels as if electricity shoots through her hand and into her entire body when they touch; she considers taking advantage of Jordan’s drunkenness and telling him that they need to hold hands the entire way home- you know, just to stay safe or whatever.

 

Jordan walks a short distance behind Beyoncé, and since she has taken it upon herself to care for him, she does so. 

 

“You okay back there, J?”

 

“Look at this big fuckin’... stick, bitch.”

 

Beyoncé turns around just in time to witness Jordan bend over to pick the stick up, lose his balance, and fall over into the grass. 

 

“Shit,” Beyoncé says, rushing over to him. “Are you okay?”

 

“I’m great, but you should come down here.”

 

“Jordan, I’d love to- I really would- but we’ve gotta get you home,” Beyoncé answers.

 

“I’m not getting up until you sit here with me for at least five minutes,” Jordan says, drunk and stubborn as ever.

 

Beyoncé rolls her eyes. “Fine. Five minutes.”

 

“I’ll even time it on my phone to make you feel better.”

 

“Don’t.” 

 

Part of Beyoncé hopes that they lose track of time and that the world starts to revolve and plan around them.

 

“Doesn’t this grass feel so fuckin’ soft?” Jordan asks as he begins to move his limbs on the grass as if he’s making a snow angel. “Like sitting on a fuckin’ cloud, bro. Like, this grass is what being around you feels like.”

 

“Being around me feels like lying on a mysterious wet spot and having pine needles poke at you? I’m glad I make you feel that way,” Beyoncé says with a quiet laugh.

 

“Move closer to me, then. You’re sitting too far away from me anyway- but don’t fuckin’ sit where you don’t wanna sit or anything.”

 

Beyoncé’s heart rate quickens as she debates whether or not she should get closer. She decides against it.

 

“You wanna hear a joke, J?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“What do you call a criminal that goes downstairs?”

 

“I’on’t know.”

 

“Condescending,” Beyoncé says. She tries her best to hold in a snort and fails miserably.

 

Jordan sits up. “What the fuck? I don’t get it.”

 

Beyoncé sits up as well. “‘Cause, a criminal is also called a con. When you go downstairs, you descend. Con-descending. It’s a con descending.”

 

“Shit!” Jordan exclaims and begins to laugh. “Oh my god, condescending! I get it, it’s ‘cause he’s- oh my goodness, that’s too much, man!”

 

Beyoncé beams as she watches Jordan enjoy her joke. Soon enough, she realizes that it’s way too late for them to be out in the state that they’re both in.

 

“C’mon Jordan,” Beyoncé says as she quickly gets to her feet.

 

“Do we really gotta get up so soon?” Jordan whines.

 

“We can find a better place for you to lie down at home, Jordan, so why don’t we go there?” Beyoncé says. The conversation reminds her of a parent talking to a child who doesn’t want to go to bed.

 

Jordan hums as if he’s considering the suggestion. Beyoncé is torn between feeling very annoyed and being endeared.

 

“Okay. Let’s go,” Jordan says, attempting to get up. 

 

Once he attempts to get to his feet, Jordan stumbles a bit, so Beyoncé helps him. When he’s stable, they continue the walk to the museum district.

 

“You know somethin’, Beyoncé?” Jordan asks.

 

“I won’t know what that ‘something’ is until you tell me, Jordan,” Beyoncé replies as she walks beside Jordan, her hands in the pockets of her hoodie.

 

“I learned a little bit of Spanish last week. Wanna-” Jordan hiccups, “Wanna hear some?”

 

“Why not? Show me what you’ve got,” Beyoncé replies.

 

“Alright. Anoche soñé contigo y- fuck, this is so hard to remember- esta... manana no me quiero despertar,” Jordan says, his pronunciation complete garbage due to his drunken state.

 

_ Last night I dreamed of you and this morning I did not want to wake up. _

 

“I’m… impressed. Humor me, Jordan, do you know what that phrase means?” Beyoncé asks, knowing that Jordan either doesn’t know the meaning or doesn’t remember it because he’s so drunk.

 

She knows it may be a little wrong, but if she were noble and caring enough to initially take responsibility for a walking, talking, far-from-sober tree branch, she should be able to have some fun, too.

 

“Nope,” Jordan answers. “I heard it somewhere. Sounds nice, though. What’s it mean?”

 

“Last night I dreamed of you and this morning I did not want to wake up,” Beyoncé tells him. When the words come from her own mouth, the only thing she regrets about them is that she probably won’t have the chance to say them to Jordan ever again.

 

“But you didn’t even know me this morning,” Jordan says.

 

“No, J, what you said in Spanish means that you dreamt of me last night and didn’t want to wake up,” Beyoncé tells him.

 

“Fuck, that’s some heavy, poetic shit,” Jordan says. “You know what else is poetic? You.”

 

Beyoncé makes a noise of contentment as she steps over a jagged crack in the sidewalk. “How so?”

 

“Even under these cheap, dingy street lights, you’re looking like an angel,” Jordan explains. “And now you’re taking me home and listening to me and we’re making each other laugh. ‘S’almost like a date if you ask me.”

 

“Oh, so that’s why you’re laying it on so thick? ‘Cause this is a date now?” Beyoncé asks with a laugh. “Do you romance everyone you’ve just met like this?”

 

“Yes and hell yes. And the best part? You can’t back out ‘cause I’m piss drunk, and if you abandon me, you’ll look like an asshole,” Jordan says.

 

“Well, damn. Looks like I’ve been conned into going out with you and I’ve only known you for about,” Beyoncé checks the time on her phone. “An hour and a half. I bet that’s a world record.”

 

Jordan gives Beyoncé a lopsided grin. “I bet it is.”

 

Beyoncé enjoys the comfortable silence that ensues; she feels sleepy and a little tipsy. She takes in her surroundings. A half moon hangs over their heads, bright, calming, a bringer of ease in the hectic and unplanned night. She fixes her gaze on street signs they pass. One of them catches her eye; it’s a sign welcoming them into the museum district.

 

Beyoncé perks up and yanks on Jordan’s sleeve. “Hey, J, we’re in the museum district. This is where you said you live, right?”

 

Jordan nods. “Yeah, I live around here.”

 

“Where exactly?” Beyoncé asks. 

 

“The cheapest apartments I could find here, that’s where exactly,” Jordan replies.

 

“No shame in that. We’re in college, we’re all broke.”

 

“Yeah, but when you see where I live, you’ll lose your mind, and not in a good way.”

 

They catch a bus to Jordan’s apartment complex, and when Beyoncé sees that it was right next to a construction site, he understands why Jordan probably despises living there.

 

“I can barely study, I can barely relax- Fuck,” Jordan spits on the ground. “I can barely fuckin’ think. I’m thankful that they don’t work all through the night.”

 

“Hey, look at it this way: At least the rent’s not as high as it could be,” Beyoncé said.

 

Jordan groans, annoyed. He then unceremoniously spits on the sidewalk in front of his residence again. “I’m really sleepy,” Jordan slurs, leaning slightly as he talks. 

 

“You are such a mess,” Beyoncé says quietly. “Let’s get you inside.”

 

“Like, I’m super sleepy,” Jordan says as he slings an arm around Beyoncé’s shoulder, feeling the need to reiterate.

 

“I know, I am too,” Beyoncé says. She doesn’t think anyone will ever understand how much she wishes that Jordan had his arms around her under different circumstances.

 

There was no time to mess around with those feelings at the moment, though. Beyoncé walks Jordan to the entrance of his apartment building, and if that wasn’t a chore (Jordan kept getting distracted), then Beyoncé doesn’t know what is.

 

“Which apartment’s yours, J?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“505. We have to go upstairs,” Jordan answers, sleepy and adorable as ever. “It’s where my bed is.”

 

She has to get Jordan (a six-foot tall college student whose blood alcohol level is probably so high that he’ll still feel a little drunk the next morning) up a flight of stairs.

 

“Well, we’d better get to it, I guess,” Beyoncé says. “Stalling won’t fix things.”

 

Surprisingly, dragging Jordan up a flight of stairs isn’t as strenuous or time-consuming as she’d assumed it would be. Beyoncé figures that it’s due to Jordan being so desperate to find a place to sleep. Although the entire process didn’t take as long as she’d feared, Beyoncé still had to sit through Jordan asking if he could take ‘a few moments’ to sit on the stairs, where he’d rest his head against the wall and doze off until Beyoncé made him wake up.

 

Beyoncé, observing Jordan, takes in how completely and utterly out-of-order he is at the moment and she realizes how much she truly does pity him.

 

“Jordan, do you have the key to your apartment with you?” Beyoncé asks as they approach apartment number 505.

 

Jordan digs around in his back pocket for the key and finds it, trying and failing to unlock the door. He misses the doorknob constantly and finally resorts to jabbing at his door and its handle with the key repeatedly.

 

Beyoncé sighs and takes the key from his hand.

 

“Hey,” Jordan protests. “That’s my key.”

 

Something in Beyoncé snaps. 

 

“Listen, Jordan,” Beyoncé begins, putting biting emphasis on her new acquaintance’s name. “Do you know how drunk you are as of-”

 

Jordan’s eyebrows raise at Beyoncé’s question.

 

“1:35 AM?”

 

“No,” Jordan answers.

 

“Well, I don’t take an interest in chemistry just to have something to brag about,” Beyoncé says, her tone filled with a type of exhaustion that one can only describe as something one would hear from someone who’s fed up and willing to do whatever it takes to catch a break. “When you take all the alcohol you consumed and then figure in the time you’ve allowed for it to act, it’s pretty safe to say that your blood alcohol level is well- let me repeat that so you don’t think this is something funny or cute-  _ well _ over the legal fucking limit.”

 

Jordan opens his mouth to speak.

 

“No! Shut the fuck up, I’m not done!” Beyoncé exclaims. “You’ve been stabbing at your door with your own fucking key for two minutes and I didn’t walk almost an entire two miles and then ride a public bus- which wouldn’t be a negative thing if it weren’t for the fact that I sat in yet another puddle of unknown liquid- for another three just to see you do that weird shit. So let me fucking unlock this door and help you so you can get over this quicker and I can at least get some kind of rest and actually be a productive member of society, you messy, drunk bitch.”

 

No one said that talking about one’s feelings when they’re at the end of their rope was wrong, but on the other hand, no one said that anyone had to be so mean to someone who they decided to help and who enjoyed said help and your presence. 

 

In other words, Beyoncé felt really guilty for unloading all of that on Jordan.

 

Jordan slumped against the doorframe and groaned quietly, his eyes fluttering shut and his head tilting back, the now-exposed column of his throat a sight to see in the dim light of the hallway. Beyoncé had thought he’d lost all of her self restraint with whatever that was that she’d unloaded on Jordan, but she was wrong. Laughably wrong, disastrously wrong, shockingly wrong. She’d still had shreds of some in her, but he got uncomfortably close to losing those when Jordan responded the way he did.

 

“I dunno what it is about that,” Jordan’s smiling softly and his voice is quiet- far from a whisper, but still low enough to where whatever he said would stay between them- and he sounds appreciative. “But when people go all, like, postal on me- all demanding- shit gets me feeling some type of way. Can’t explain it, I really can’t.”

 

“Okayt,” Beyoncé mutters miserably as her previously angry expression softens and she feels a horrible mixture of butterflies and heat churn in her stomach. She unlocks the door to Jordan’s apartment, her voice rising to a normal level as she talks to Jordan. “You’ll really see ‘postal’ if we don’t get you into bed, pal.”

 

“So soon? You didn’t even take me to dinner first,” Jordan slurs, giggling as he follows Beyoncé into the apartment and fumbles around for the lightswitch.

 

If the circumstances were different, Beyoncé would say, ‘Fuck dinner,’ and further appease Jordan by doing nothing but churning a lot more groans than giggles out of him (but maybe not, she likes to hear Jordan laugh) for as long as she’d be allowed to do so, but Jordan is drunk, so much so that he’s close to possibly becoming a sleepy sexual deviant, and Beyoncé is stuck with the task of taking care of him. She figures that it’s both of their faults. You can’t charm someone and expect them not to attempt to take you home in some way, but you also can’t catch feelings for the first person that flirts with you at a party.

 

Beyoncé sighs and shakes her head as she takes a look around the apartment. It’s more spacious than she’d originally assumed it to be, but it’s no palace. 

Beyoncé hears a glass break and immediately turns toward the sound to see Jordan cursing and looking at the floor with a scowl and she sighs for the umpteenth time that night. As she goes to assess the damages, she notices that Jordan’s disappeared from view. 

 

Beyoncé quickly learns that no, Jordan hasn’t left the premises, he’s just made the terribly unintelligent decision to take it upon himself to pick up the shards of glass scattered on the floor. 

 

Beyoncé hears him hiss painfully. “Fuck, that hurts!” 

 

“Jordan,” Beyoncé says as she rushes over to him and grabs his wrists to make him stop attempting to pick up any more glass, which he has handfuls of. “Drop the glass, c’mon. Let me fix your hands.”

 

Jordan looks down and watches as blood drips from his hand and onto the white leather of his Nike sneakers. 

 

“Aw,” he says with a sour expression, wincing when Beyoncé turns his hands over to look at the wounds on them. “I’d just found these at the thrift store like, a week ago. Hadn’t even gotten a chance to break ‘em in.”

 

“It’s okay, J, we’ll find a way to fix that after you’re taken care of,” Beyoncé replies softly, as if she's talking to a five year old who’s just scraped their knee. She feels ridiculous doing it, but on the other hand, it feels nice. Taking care of someone she now cares a little bit about feels gratifying in a way. “Where’s your bathroom?”

 

“It’s in my room.”

 

“What?” Beyoncé asks.

 

“You’ve gotta go to my room to find it,” Jordan says.

 

“Jordan, stop trying to get me-”

 

“No,” Jordan interrupts. “It’s in my room. My hands hurt.”

 

“Oh,” Beyoncé says. 

 

Jordan directs Beyoncé to his bathroom where she turns on the light, catching her and Jordan’s reflections in the mirror. They both look tired, but Jordan looks strangely sated on top of it. He isn’t moaning about the pain as incessantly as most people would, and Beyoncé attributes that to the amount of alcohol in his system. She also notices just how tall Jordan is, how he’s awkwardly hunched over her because his hands are in Beyoncé’s. Beyoncé forces herself to focus on the situation at hand (no pun intended). She gingerly lets go of Jordan’s hands and tells him not to let them touch anything as he washes her hands. She then asks if he has any dishwashing liquid.

 

“I- I guess,” Jordan says. 

 

“Great,” Beyoncé says, drying her hands and abandoning Jordan to run to the kitchen and get soap. When she comes back, Jordan looks puzzled.

 

“You’re not washing my hands right now, and you’re definitely not doing it with that,” Jordan says.

 

“We have to, buddy. Gonna hurt like an absolute motherfucker, of course,” Beyoncé says sympathetically as she turns the water back on and gets a towel. “But we have to. This soap is the kind that says it’s gentle on your hands anyway, so it won’t be as bad as it could be. Do you really want your hands to stay dirty so you can get an infection and then have them fall off? ”

 

Jordan looks mortified.

 

“That’s what I thought. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll count to three before I put your hands under the water,” Beyoncé offers. 

 

Jordan smiles. “I think- I think that’d be great.”

 

“Alright,” Beyoncé tells him as she takes both of his hands in her own. “One, two.” 

 

Beyoncé winces as she shoves Jordan’s hands under the warm water and hears him curse loudly. 

 

“Sorry, J,” Beyoncé says as she gets soap and a washcloth and works on Jordan’s cut hands. “Had to.”

 

Jordan curses under his breath and looks at Beyoncé. 

 

“Fuckin’ hurts,” he whines, sharply inhaling every time Beyoncé touches one of his wounds.

 

“I know,” Beyoncé says quietly as she looks at Jordan’s hands intently. They’re big and his nails are short like he bites them, and Beyoncé wonders if Jordan plays piano because surprisingly, this guy looks like he has the talent- she knows nothing about what makes someone look like a piano player, but this man looks like he plays piano. That’s not her top priority, though; the only thing she really cares about is how Jordan’s hands feel in hers, how they seem to fit together so effortlessly. She feels as if she's getting distracted by Jordan’s hands, so she puts them under the stream of water (that’s slowly becoming lukewarm) from the faucet. 

 

“It’s gotta hurt now so you won’t be hurting any worse later. I’m pretty much done now, though. Got any gauze, or like, band-aids?”

 

“Uh, maybe,” Jordan answers. “My roommate Matt has this girl over- he boxes or whatever- and I guess she’s studying to be a nurse or whatever because she patched him up real good and stuff ‘cause he got beat up I guess. She started talking about how she wants a job at this hospital upstate; she left a bunch of her stuff here after they studied together.”

 

Beyoncé nods. “So, what’s Matt looking into?”

 

Jordan snorts. “Religious studies or some shit.”

 

Beyoncé glances at Jordan, puzzled. “What’s so funny about that?”

 

“He never studies when she comes over,” Jordan tells Beyoncé. “The walls are kinda thin, so I can always hear them, you know?”

 

“Oh? And what exactly do you hear, J?” Beyoncé inquires.

 

“Sometimes he’s just talking to her about who knows what, but sometimes? Sometimes he’ll be like,” Jordan laughs and tries to do his best imitation of his roommate, who apparently sounds very monotonous. “‘Claire, that’s blasphemous.’ ‘Claire, my roommate’s here, keep it down.’ ‘Claire, you know how I get when we start conversating in Spanish.’”

 

“I surely don’t have to guess about the blasphemy part,” Beyoncé says with a smile and a laugh. “Don’t have to guess about any of that, actually. Seems like Matt and Claire have a nice thing going on.”

 

Jordan groans. “No,” Jordan says, drawing out the syllable, sarcasm dripping from the word like water from a leaky faucet. “They’re so obnoxious! Always spending time together and havin’ sex and shit.”

 

“What? You jealous or something? You don’t have anyone to do that with?” Beyoncé fears her question comes out wrong, but she still has to know nonetheless. It’s selfish, she knows, but she can’t help it.

 

“Very jealous, and nope,” Jordan answers. “Wish I did, though.”

 

Beyoncé can’t look him in the eye. She looks down at Jordan’s hands in hers as she dries them. The cuts on his hands vary in size; they’re an angry red, a stark contrast to the slightly-tanned shade of his skin, and it’s almost as if they form a sort of map on it. Beyoncé once again tries not to get too caught up in her observations. 

 

“So where’s that stuff that girl left?”

 

“I put everything Claire left here in that cabinet behind you.”

 

Beyoncé turns around and looks in the cabinet, finding what she needs quickly. She forces herself to make conversation as she works.

 

“Y’know, you’re gonna have quite the hangover tomorrow,” Beyoncé says as she starts to wrap gauze around Jordan’s palm. He inhales sharply and Beyoncé jumps. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

 

Jordan shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just a little jumpy ‘cause my hands hurt, I guess,” he says, looking at his hands as Beyoncé bandages them. “You’re fine. Also, I know. I usually don’t drink much, but I don’t know what happened tonight.”

 

“Well, if I recall correctly, you said, ‘Watch how fast I can drink these beers,’ and then I did exactly that, I watched you drink a bunch of beer- and a terrible amount of some horrifying mixture of like, ten different liquors and fruit juice- in record time,” Beyoncé explains.

 

“Well, fuck,” Jordan says.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know if any amount of water can save you from how you’re gonna feel when you wake up,” Beyoncé replies as she finishes with Jordan’s hands, putting bandaids on the less major cuts on his fingertips and putting adhesive tape on to keep the gauze on the other cuts together. “Listen, try not to be too rough on your hands, you don’t want to make the wounds heal slower by reopening them.”

 

“You say that like ’m gonna get into a bunch of fistfights or somethin’,” Jordan comments with a laugh, sleepiness heavy in his voice.

 

Beyoncé chuckles. “I know. Just looking out, a bit of caution never hurt anybody.” 

 

Jordan smiles. “Thank you.”

 

“Can’t thank me just yet- you’ve still gotta get all of these clothes off, drink some water, and get into bed, and I don’t trust you to do that yourself, somehow,” Beyoncé says. “That is, unless you can say the alphabet backwards.”

 

Jordan scoffs. “I’m not some baby, I can do that.”

 

“Do it, then,” Beyoncé challenges.

 

“A, B, C, D, E, F, G- must I go on, Beyoncé? Or am I making you upset because I proved you wrong?” Jordan shoots back.

 

Beyoncé snorts at the response, too entertained by Jordan’s antics to tell him what he’s doing wrong. 

 

“Oh, no, please do go on. Don’t let my ego and I stop you, feel free to completely prove me wrong.”

 

“What letter was I on? I think it was G. H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, P,” Jordan replies, a cocky and lopsided grin on his face. “Q, R, S, T, U, V, W, X, Y, and, last but definitely, positively not least- Z. Lemme go to sleep.”

 

“I told you to say it backwards. That was  _ definitely, positively _ not backwards. You’re drunk, let me help you,” Beyoncé says with a laugh as Jordan scowls. “Let’s get you out of these clothes. If that’s alright with you, I mean.”

 

Jordan smirks. “You know what? I’m cool with this. Take my clothes off.”

 

Beyoncé’s stomach turns, but Beyoncé jumps over it and forces a laugh. “Aw, don’t say it like that, you make it sound all weird.”

 

“And they say chivalry is dead, huh?” Jordan asks playfully as Beyoncé unzips his hoodie for him and pulls it off.

 

Beyoncé laughs quietly, her fingers grazing the hem of Jordan’s shirt. 

 

“I can take this off, right?” Beyoncé asks, sounding hesitant and timid, fearing rejection. She knows that none of this is even really necessary; nobody ever really needs help taking their own clothes off. 

 

Doesn’t stop her from trying, though.

 

Jordan looks at Beyoncé for a few moments before he nods. “I don’t really hit the gym, though, so don’t get your hopes up about what you’ll see.” He laughs nervously.

 

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Beyoncé says reassuringly. “I don’t care about how anyone’s body looks. Plus, I don’t have any reason to pass judgement on your body anyway. Don’t sweat it.”

 

Beyoncé smiles at Jordan and she relaxes. She hadn’t even realized how much tension she’d been holding in her shoulders; she must’ve been too caught up in her own thoughts about him to notice. She begins to pull Jordan’s shirt up, knuckles brushing against his skin softly, and Jordan raises his arms so the shirt can be pulled over his head. She wonders if Jordan can hear the way her heart pounds in her ears, her feeling euphoric but helpless in every sense of the word. 

 

Beyoncé’s eyes follow her hands as they go up with the shirt. The soft fabric between her fingers makes her feel strangely at ease; it makes her feel like her entire life has led up to this moment, like she was made specifically to be in this situation with Jordan. 

 

She stands on the tips of her toes in an attempt to get the shirt completely off, but it doesn’t work.

 

“Jordan, I’m too short,” Beyoncé says. “I can’t take your shirt all the way off.”

 

Jordan laughs and slips the shirt off himself. Beyoncé’s eyes are fixed to his body and she's taking in every single inch of him that’s exposed as if she’ll never see any of it again. 

 

With the way the night is going, she can’t tell if she’ll see Jordan again, so it might just be in her best interest to act accordingly.

 

“Beyoncé, my eyes are up here,” Jordan says, the words casual and lighthearted but the tone strained and pitiful and dry.

 

Beyoncé’s eyes meet Jordan’s and they share a nervous laugh before Jordan gives Beyoncé a look of expectancy. 

 

“What?” Beyoncé asks. 

 

Jordan answers with his own question. “Aren’t you gonna help me, like, take everything else off?” 

 

Beyoncé wants to tell Jordan that, yes, she’d absolutely love to take him up on the offer of pulling his pants off, but she hasn’t even known Jordan for an entire day. In addition to that, those actions wouldn’t line up with the ‘no ulterior motives’ motto she's taken for the night.

 

Beyoncé rolls her eyes. “Jordan, you’re drunk, but you’re not five years old,” she says playfully. “Take your own pants and shoes off.”

 

“Since you asked so nicely, I’ll take my pants off,” Jordan replies with a grin, messing with his belt buckle.

 

Beyoncé rolls her eyes and takes note of the mess on the counter, taking the time to tidy up and put Claire’s things back so that she wouldn’t suspect that anyone messed with them. She hears Jordan inhale sharply and he turns around.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, my fingers just hurt, but it’s nothing,” Jordan says.

 

“I just wanted to- oh. Oh my goodness, do you want me to like, look away or something?” Beyoncé asks when she notices Jordan unbuttoning his pants. “Wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable or seem like I’m a creep or anything.”

 

Jordan shakes his head as he unzips his pants. “I don’t mind, I don’t really have anything to hide.” He pulls his pants down to his knees and shrugs. “See? Nothin’ special about it, just a man in his boxers.”

 

“You really do not have a problem with near-strangers seeing you in your underwear,” Beyoncé tells him with a snort. “Which, may I add, are some very nice underwear.”

 

Jordan looks down at his boxer shorts, which are a plain white aside from ‘WARNING! Choking Hazard!’ printed a few inches beneath the waistband in bold blue. He looks back up at Beyoncé and his cheeks flush; he tries to hide it by looking down at his shoes as he takes them off. “Thank you, I got them as a Christmas present.”

 

“Whoever got you those must be really good at giving gifts,” Beyoncé says matter-of-factly as she leans on the counter. “They look great on you.”

 

As soon as the words leave Beyoncé’s mouth, she desperately wishes she could take them back. She thinks he must sound so ridiculous; who compliments someone they barely know on how their underwear look on them?

 

Jordan looks at Beyoncé for what feels like an eternity with a disbelieving smile on his face before he laughs. “Thanks for the compliment.” He sounds as if he’s moments away from settling for drifting off to sleep standing up and his sentence is punctuated with a yawn.

 

“You really need to get some rest,” Beyoncé says. She checks her watch and sees that it’s almost two o’clock in the morning.

 

Jordan yawns again and nods, shuffling sluggishly out of the bathroom and to his bed a few feet away. He falls face first onto it and groans, bunching the sheets up in his arms. 

 

“My bed!” He exclaims with relief, tossing and turning until he’s lying in a more normal and comfortable position.

 

Beyoncé smiles fondly at the sight, taking time to sit back and admire Jordan for a moment before she realizes that she should give him some water. Even though no amount of it is going to help his hangover in the morning, it’s still good to stay hydrated. That’s what Beyoncé figures, at least.

 

She quietly makes a trip to the kitchen, stopping to pick up the shards of glass left on the floor before she gets a cup of water for Jordan. She goes back into the bedroom to find him sitting up in bed, propped up on his elbows.

 

“I thought you left me without saying goodbye,” Jordan said. “I also thought I wouldn’t get a chance to thank you.”

 

Beyoncé gives Jordan a slight smile and a shake of her head as she hands him the glass of water. “You don’t have to thank me. I know I’d want someone to help me out if I got into a similar situation.”

 

Jordan finishes his water rather quickly. 

 

“Oh, no, I was going to thank you for putting up with me.” 

 

“Again, you don’t have to. I was just trying to be decent,” Beyoncé tells him, “I got out of staying at that party for longer than I had to anyway, so that’s a great thing for me.”

 

Jordan chuckles. “Glad I could help out, Beyoncé.”

 

Beyoncé and Jordan smile at each other awkwardly and deafening silence hangs between them. Beyoncé is the one to break it.

 

“Well, I should be getting home,” Beyoncé says with a sigh. “It’s late. It was nice meeting you, Jordan.”

 

“It, uh- It was nice meeting you too,” Jordan replies.

 

“Maybe we’ll see each other on campus sometime,” Beyoncé offers.

 

“Maybe,” Jordan says quietly, lying back down. As soon as his head hits the pillow, his eyes close. He turns on his side and his back is to Beyoncé. “Goodnight, Bey.”

 

Beyoncé waits a few moments to see if he says anything else. He doesn’t, so she makes her way out of Jordan’s room and into the kitchen, where she takes everything in as if it’s the last time she’ll ever see it. She sees a notepad on the counter; she knows she shouldn’t be so nosy, but she reads it. 

 

_ matt, it’s your turn to take the trash out... lazy ass motherfucker _

_ i’m  _ _ not _ _ letting you get out of it like you did last time _

_ -J :) ← passive aggressive “i’m gonna kick your dumb ass if you don’t take the trash out” smiley face _

 

Beyoncé laughs quietly and shakes her head. Before she can think clearly about what she's doing, she's taking a pen she's found nearby, flipping to a new page in the notepad, ripping it out, and writing her number on it. She writes her name under her number and then stares at the piece of paper as if she expects it to tell her what to do next, as if she doesn’t already know what she's going to do next.

 

She walks back to Jordan’s bedroom, her footsteps light and her movements quick and quiet. She feels like some kind of spy, and that makes her happy; it takes the edge off of the anxiety that everything she's experienced has given her. She sees that, to her knowledge, Jordan is still asleep, and she puts the piece of paper on the nightstand next to her bed.

 

“Goodnight, J,” Beyoncé says softly as she leaves the bedroom (and, shortly after, the apartment itself) for good.

 

She catches the bus and texts Kelly when she gets home since she isn’t there.

 

**YOU - TODAY, 2:20 AM** : i’m home

**YOU - TODAY, 2:21 AM:** i also wanted to thank you for basically forcing me to go to this party

**YOU - TODAY, 2:21 AM:** if you knew about the night i had you’d lose it… also, stay safe and wake me up when u get home bc i’ll definitely still be asleep by the time u get here  <3

Beyoncé thinks that Kelly should convince her to do shit she hates more often.

 

At home, she falls asleep with a smile on her face.

  
  


  
  
  
  
  



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